Russian Bride No 41319
by and so they said always
Summary: He's uncertain, but starting this off with "So, I just ordered you off the internet for book research," is probably not the best way to go. Castle's low on inspiration, and makes one of the biggest (best) mistakes of his life when he orders a Russian Bride to base a character on. Beckett needs to escape Russia to solve her mother's murder. But neither of them counted on the spark.
1. 1 - Off the Plane

**Hi guys,**

**So this story is radically different from anything I've ever written. I know 3SF is an AU, but this is really, ****_really _****AU. The idea just popped into my head, so I wrote it. It's kind of stupid and will require 110 pounds of suspended disbelief, but stick with it. I promise it gets better after chapter 1.**

**It starts off a little rocky, but hopefully it'll end up a lot of fun with a bit of action and drama, and a lot of romance.**

**A/N: Being a female high schooler living on the legal side of things, I obviously have 0 idea how the whole Russian Bride thing works. So I've made it up. I apologise for any mistakes concerning the process, Kiev or New York.**

**Also: I know Kiev is in Ukraine, but you never see ads for Ukrainian Brides... so I'm just going to gloss over that, which is horrible of me to do, but...**

* * *

**Some Notes Before You Read:  
**

\- Castle found Meredith cheating on him before Alexis could come into the picture. He's low on inspiration and feeling a little reckless (a little crazy)  
\- Beckett was born and raised in Kiev, but her mother was murdered in an alley while defending a Russian immigrant on American soil  
\- Castle has an idea for a book, and gets a bit over his head when it comes to the idea of researching  
\- Beckett is determined to find her way to America, and solve her mother's murder, by any means necessary

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 1  
****a caskett fanfiction**

_August 13, 2004_

There's a Line, somewhere, between research and insanity.

Richard Castle is proud to say he's tap danced along that knife's edge many, many times: he'd once slept in a cardboard box in an alley in the Bronx, he'd gone to see an underground midget wrestling tournament, he'd submerged himself in sub-freezing water for hours and he'd staked out a dodgy club famed for its… _first class customer service, _as it were.

But this…

This was an idiotic move. This was considering the Line, and then pole vaulting over it.

Somewhere along the way, it had gone from a ridiculous notion at three in the morning, to calling a guy who knows a guy, to sixty thousand dollars, to waiting at an airport.

And in between those four, easy steps, he'd ended up _way _over his head. So far under, he can't even tell which way is up anymore.

Castle shifts uneasily from foot to foot as he waits at the private airfield, surrounded by a group of around nine other men. Almost all of them are older, fatter and (obviously) far less attractive than he. Together, the cluster of them forms a veritable cocktail of different nationalities.

None of the others look nervous. They're not twisting awkwardly like they're waiting for a bomb to go off. They all seem casual, unbothered, as if about to make a brief transaction at the bank.

That's probably because they're all here for wives. He doubts there's another among them, apart from he, who's here because they want to make their next book character a Russian bride who comes to America and ends up running an illegal, high-stakes poker ring.

In his hand, he's clutching nothing but a piece of paper. On that piece of paper is nothing but a number and a name. The name has presumably been anglicised, probably to make it easier for him. It's a nice name; all those Ks will inevitably feel good on his tongue.

He unfurls the small slip of lined legal, and reads it again.

Too late now, he supposes. In ten minutes, a plane from the slightly suspicious _Smit John Airlines_ will land, carrying ten European girls.

And one of them will be Russian Bride Number 41319, and called _Katherine Beckett. _

* * *

She's caught in a wild emotional whirlwind, migrating between frustrated, excited and bored.

In just a handful of minutes, she'll be _exactly _where she wants to be. On American soil, walking the streets of the very city where her mother had been killed five years ago.

Johanna Beckett had flown in from Kiev to defend a Russian immigrant in some scandalous case. Part way through the inevitably messy trial, the lawyer had been stabbed in an alley, and left to bleed out.

She had been buried in America – with her father spiralling downwards into the bottom of a bottle of the finest and strongest vodka that money could buy; a young

Kate had been unable to get the required identification and paperwork to have her mother's body sent home.

She had wanted to leave Kiev, to visit her mother's grave in the city of New York, and perhaps, perhaps – find out who put a cool slice of metal in between Johanna's ribs.

But a mere four days after her she received news of the vicious murder, she had returned home to find the apartment had been ransacked.

Nothing was stolen except files. Every piece of paper in the entire house. Clearly, the thieves had been looking for something in particular, or maybe fearing they'd find it, but had not had the time to locate the specific document. The burglars had never been caught, just like her mother's killer.

And so at nineteen years of age, Katherine Beckett was left with no mother, barely a father, no passport, and no proof of who she was, unable to leave the country.

So she had developed a plan, which she had carried out with single-minded determination and remarkable success.

Now, she's sitting in seat 14B next to one _Ruby Simons _(Kate's father had been half-American, so her own name was passably Western; the other girls had had their names changed), being told to prepare for landing.

Ruby looks scared. Kate can't blame her. They're all minutes away from being handed off to wealthy, self-important business men who couldn't get a compliant girl themselves.

Ruby mutters something quiet. It sounds like: _we will all have bruises by tonight.  
_

Kate won't, of course. She's trained herself in combat like a soldier. She didn't go through all this effort and come this far just to be knocked around by a middle-aged New Yorker with soft hands.

All she needs is to lay low for a little while, be obedient for a few days, and then…

Well, bust the hell out of there and solve her mother's murder, using any means necessary.

This _Richard Castle _she's supposed to put up with has no idea what's coming to him.

* * *

Castle watches in a kind of fascination as one by one, the girls are lead out of the small room that they were shuffled into when they first landed.

"Mr Muskapowi? Miss Evangeline West," announces a small, weedy man (he introduced himself as _Mr Sleeve_) who stands in front of the group of men waiting on their new wives.

A thin girl with a long face and dank hair is dragged out of the cramped waiting zone by a tall man, who must be the plane's captain.

Mr Sleeve, who is also a lawyer, makes the new couple sign some forms, and sends them on their way, out of a discreet back exit. Castle can't help but wince at how tightly Mr Muskapowi is holding onto Evangeline's arm.

Three more girls come and leave with their respective new husbands. Melina, Carrie and Ruby.

He's suddenly sad when he realises those girls will probably never see their homeland of Russia again. He wonders what made them decide to choose this life.

All thoughts are quickly, smoothly and _completely _erased from his brain when the next girl stalks into the room. The captain doesn't even have to encourage her, which is probably a good thing, because the man in uniform has gone a little slack at the jaw.

She's tall. Not as tall as him, but tall enough to look most men straight in the eye. Oh, her eyes. They're a smoky green-gold, and pierce into the souls of each of them (_you have been weighed in the scales and found wanting, _they seem to say). Her skirt is doing a miserable job of concealing her legs, and her leather jacket makes her look like a badass spy; she's the physical embodiment of every foreign fantasy a guy has ever had. She's gorgeous and moves like she knows it.

She's also way too good for every guy here, and she probably knows that, too.

Which begs the question. Why _is _she here?

Castle knows immediately that this girl will irreversibly be his Russian Bride character in his head. It won't matter who his actual "new wife" is – this girl is _perfect.  
_

He sighs. On some level, he's actually sort of glad this ethereal angel _isn't _meant for him, because he's pretty sure that if they called his name right now, he wouldn't be able to move. He'd just keep staring at her, transfixed, until she laughed at him.

God, he wants to hear her laugh.

"Mr Castle? Katherine Beckett," announces Mr Sleeve, indicating the tall girl.

* * *

**So yeah. Like I said - really AU.  
****I know it's kind of OC for Castle to do something as crazy as order a Russian Bride, but the idea just seemed to funny to me I had to write it.  
As per usual, if you guys enjoy this story, I'll keep writing, if not, I'll try something else. I've written a few chapters already though, so I'll probably publish them anyway.**

**P.S. As far as I know, this idea is original, but if someone else has already done this, I didn't mean to infringe. **

**x.**


	2. 2 - Cherry Red

**Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!**

**That response was amazing and totally unexpected. I'm kind of tempted to quit while I'm ahead, I'm afraid you've all got these incredible expectations for this story I thought would be a total flop.**

**A few notes:**

**Thanks to RoninBlackwing for pointing out that this story was not as atrociously OC as I originally thought - in 2x05, ****_When the Bow Breaks, _****Castle mentions he ****_almost _****bought a Russian Bride once. **

**Thanks also to KB4RC for taking the time to explain to me the whole procedure of acquiring a Russian Bride, which in a fit of irresponsible laziness, I failed dismally to research. However, in an extended fit of laziness, I'm just going to continue on my factless and incorrect trajectory, because I can't really go back and change everything now. For those of you who are interested, apparently Castle would have had to go to Ukraine and meet Beckett first, provide proof of their meeting, get Kate a visa, and get married within three months, else she would be deported. I cannot express enough how grateful I am to KB4RC for this information.  
For the purposes of this story, however, Castle went to a seriously dodgy company that did not follow these regulations, and Mr Sleeve got them to sign some Vegas-esque paperwork when she arrived, with the captain and co-captain as witnesses. Shockingly inaccurate... but hey, it's fanfiction.**

**I wrote this chapter when I wrote chapter 1, so hopefully it flows on well-ish.**

**Now on with the chapter...**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 2  
****a caskett fanfiction**

Wait, _what?_ He knows it's more than about time he had some good luck, but he's not sure he can handle _this much _good luck.

The girl – Katherine – is looking at him appraisingly.

He's acting like an idiot.

Quickly, Castle straightens, and walks towards Mr Sleeve and Katherine with his most casual, in-control stride.

"Hi," he says to her, because what do you say to someone you basically _ordered off the internet _for book research? What do you say to someone as clearly extraordinary as her?

"Hello," she returns, and there's a decent amount of steel in that single syllable, but he's too swept away by her accent to even register it.

His knees are about to commit mutiny when Mr Sleeve saves the day. "Sign here, Mr Castle. And here. You too, Katherine, now." The pilot and co-pilot stand dutifully by as witnesses, as if this was some kind of really legitimate ceremony.

She scrawls her signature in a careless, fluid motion. The ink seems to regret leaving the pen in her hand, seems to miss being clutched in the warmth of her fingers.

(He would.)

He snaps out of his daze just enough to sign away is bachelor…ness? His stomach flips a little at that. He's _married.  
_

Still, it's not _real, _right? It's like getting married in Vegas. Sure, it may be legal, but no one actually expects you to honour it.

(He kind of already wants to honour it.)

This is a hell of a reckless stunt to pull, but he can't seem to stop himself now (especially not with her in his line of sight).

Then, suddenly, they're being shown the exit.

"Wait," he gasps, proud of himself for speaking. Another few seconds with her, and he won't be able to any more. "Don't you have any luggage?"

"They did not let us. The customs, they do not like them," she tells him sparingly, before marching off, with him stumbling to keep pace with her.

In the corner of this eye, he can see the bare skin of her arm, and how very smooth and utterly touchable it looks. His fingers itch. But he refuses to take her arm and lead her out like the other men did. Like their wives were property. Or maybe they just thought the girls were going to try and run.

If Katherine Beckett did, he wouldn't stop her. He doesn't even want to. Why would he? He's a total stranger to her.

But she exudes such an air of purpose, of intent, it doesn't seem like she's going to make a dash.

"The…uh…" _Come on, Rick, you can do it. I thought you called yourself the master of words?_ His brain whispers at him tauntingly. _Yeah, well, I didn't anticipate meeting her, _he thinks back crossly. "The car is this way?" Damn. That's not a question. Why did that sound like a question? He needs to sound cool, manly. Not like some teenager suddenly alone with the prettiest girl on the playground.

"What is the colour of it?" she asks, her English good, but too formal to be a New Yorker, even without the accent. He realises that, yet again, he's been too caught up with the sound of her words to realise what she's even saying. She's basically told him she thinks he's too up-in-the-clouds to find his own car, and she'll have to find it herself.

"It's red," he stammers. "A Ferrari."

"I thought all of you from the York bought taxis," she replies coolly, curiously. Her eyes are darting around and she's calmly asking questions like she's casing out a joint. Except in this case, of course, the 'joint' is the entire city of New York.

"No, I didn't want you to have to awkwardly be stared at by a cab driver," he says. He'd figured she wouldn't want to answer any strange and prying questions after being in the country only a few minutes.

"Because you are not staring awkwardly at me, no?" she smirks, and _wow, _does he want to see her smirk again.

To cover the uncomfortableness he is currently experiencing in great quantities, he corrects her grammar by force of habit. "And by the way, you don't _buy _a taxi." He winces. That probably seemed rude and snobbish.

She laughs a little at him, and damn the smirk, he wants to hear _that _again. All day. Every day. "And they said to us that you were rich, yet you cannot even buy taxi. Is a shame."

So she can be sarcastic in the English language, but doesn't know you don't _buy _a taxi? He decides to change topic. "So… Is your name really Katherine? Because I figured they might have made it more Western or something. Cos if you're name's really Ekaterina, I'll call you that."

They reach his car and she slides into the passenger side smoothly, 90% legs. His throat goes a little dry – well, dryer.

"No. My name really is Katherine Beckett."

"Oh?" he forces out as he slides the key into the ignition, but doesn't start the engine. "If you don't mind my saying, it doesn't sound very Russian."

"I suppose you know a great, great deal about Russia, do you not?" she bites, and he'd never say it out loud, but it rings hollow, almost homesick. "But no. You are correct in your saying. My father's father, he was one of your Americans. He comes to Russia a long time ago."

Castle nods to himself. "So have you ever been to the United States before?"

"No. I have… never been," she murmurs.

In the rear view mirror, he accidentally catches her eye. There's something else there, something he missed before.

Something deep and sad and haunted.

* * *

She's deliberately breaking her English, not the he needs to know that.

Kate does not do anything half way, so when she learned English, she learned it flawlessly. If she wants to, she can shirk her accent, as well. She wouldn't be able to pass as a New Yorker, but a few weeks here, and she's confident she would.

But for now, let this _Castle _man think she's a little ignorant, a little helpless in the ways of his people, and he's sure to let his guard down a bit. Underestimate her and her capabilities.

It's funny, the way he's bumbling after her, like a little puppy. She always thought the men who ordered brides were supposed to be ruthless and cruel, or have some feature so incredibly undesirable they couldn't get a girl in their own culture. But this one, he seems… almost cute.

No. _Not cute, Kate, _she berates herself_._ Easy.

Easy to lull, easy to trick, easy to leave.

Wherever he lives, it'll be simple enough to sneak out at night and when he's at work to get a start on her mother's case. Kate can fend for herself, and she's used to flying under the radar. And she's pretty certain that these American police will have nothing on the Russian ones.

He has a nice car, she'll give him that. She likes the colour, it reminds her of cherries.

He asks her about her name, and she tells him just enough to keep him quiet on the topic as they pull out of his parking space at the private airfield and into the street.

The traffic is suffocating and repressive, even with the top of the car open like this.

New York is a strange city. She supposes she might grow to like it, one day. But now, it just smells like smoke and looks nothing like home.

Home.

She wonders if her father is onto his second bottle of vodka yet. If he's finally succeeded in drowning himself in alcohol. Maybe she'll find a way back to Kiev, back to their apartment, and see him again one day.

Maybe she won't.

She sighs, and glances over at the man behind the steering wheel, who seems to be struggling with whether or not to say something. She's not going to encourage him, but she'll wait him out.

"Look," he finally begins. "I haven't been completely honest with you."

They haven't really talked about anything he could exactly lie about, but… "Ah, I see. You meant to order a Russian _Husband_," she grins, teasing. "I know you were too pretty." She doesn't bother to mention she's actually from Ukraine. He probably hasn't learned anything about the USSR since the Cold War loomed between their two nations.

She's making a joke about the husbands, and they both know it, because she's just as aware as he is how much he's been staring at her.

"No. It's just… I don't really need a bride at all," he manages.

Beckett feels herself panic slightly, because this is not part of the plan. She needs somewhere legitimate-looking to retreat to after her night-time investigations, with a rich and legitimate-looking husband as an alibi if the police come looking. More than that, she needs a safe retreat in this new and unknown city.

She's really only got two choices. Kiss him senseless, until he forgets why he didn't want her, or guilt trip him.

At this point, especially while going 60km/hr, the second seems more reasonable. He's been careful around her so far. Maybe he thinks that if he's not careful, she'll break. He's totally wrong, but there's no reason for him to know that.

"You leave me on street?" she asks in a deliberately small voice, her accent a little thicker and her grammar a lot worse. She feels kind of bad for manipulating him (she's normally nicer than this, but he'll never be around her long enough to know that), but she's doing what has to be done to survive.

And, more importantly, to get answers.

* * *

**Hopefully, this is what you were looking for. All those lovely reviews made me worry about your expectations, but I guess I'll just blunder on.**

**For PeterGunn, who was wondering - I fully intend to carry on this story indefinitely, like 3SF, or as long as people still enjoy it. **

**You can find me on tumblr under "andsotheysaidalways" for updates and cover art.**

**Also, let me know if the way Beckett is talking tips towards yuck for you guys. I mean, it's fun to write, and in my current plan, it would only last a few chapters, but if it's pissing you guys off, I'll cut it. ****Again - it's not meant to offend anyone who speaks English as a second language. I have learned a second language, and know how difficult it can be to get all the words in the right order and the right tense. But if it does genuinely bother you, let me know, and we can figure something out.**

**x. M**


	3. 3 - Nineteen

**Wow.**

**Again, I am completely amazed by the response I've had to this story. Keep it coming! I'm glad you're enjoying this, I didn't realise you would.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 3  
****a caskett fanfiction**

"What?" Castle's aghast that she'd even think that of him. _Leave her on the street? _What the hell! He then realises, a little abruptly and a lot sadly, that she has no reason to think better of him. "No, of course not. I just… I didn't buy – _God, that sounds terrible, I _bought _you… _I – I'm a writer, you see, and – wait, that won't make much sense to you. , I - I didn't buy you to be a wife. That's all I mean."

She nods sagely. "You are meaning you are married to your words?"

Ooh, he likes the sound of that. It's poetic. _Married to his words_. He's pretty sure it wouldn't ring as nice coming from someone else's mouth, but everything sounds like a beautiful song or poem when she says it. "Not quite what I was getting at. I write crime fiction. You know what that is, right?"

"Bang, bang and with the guns," she supplies, an eyebrow raised.

"Pretty much. Anyway, I've written a lot of books that are pretty standard. Secret agents, detectives, private eyes. Everything. It's got kind of lame."

"Can't walk, like bad horse leg lame?"

"No, no. Like boring. Um… like - _eugh…_" he tries. She grins, and he wonders for the first time if she's messing with him. "Anyway," he blunders on, "I wanted to try a new character. Something no one's ever done before. Someone who falls in the grey area, not black or white. So, I thought… Well, it sounds kind of stupid now, but… A Russian girl who was brought to America against her will to be a wealthy business man's wife. He's horrible and beats her, so -"

"You hit me and I hit you back," she warns him, unblinking, seriously, as if she thinks this is some kind of segue into his own plans for her.

He almost smiles, though that would be inappropriate when discussing this topic. She's just… spunky. He loves it. Even though they're technically married, she just doesn't have the time of day for him, and it's amazingly taunting. She's gorgeous and mysterious and doesn't give a damn. She's already walking all over him.

"Of course. I won't hit you, I promise. I – I know you have no reason to trust me, but I swear to god I'm not like that. I really just want to talk to you. So this character from Russia… let's call her Nikki…"

"Is not a Russian name for girl," Beckett corrects him.

"Maybe it was anglicised on the trip over?" he tries.

"Good enough."

Did he mention he loves her accent? He _loves _her accent. There is not a New Yorker alive who could make a mere 'good enough' seem like the highest praise in the world.

"Okay, so she runs away to the only place with any familiarity – the Russian mob."

At this point, she actually laughs at him. He's distracted again by how wonderful she looks with the wind whispering through her hair. "She runs to the mob? This girl of yours – she is very stupid, yes?"

"No, no," he insists. "She's smart. Look, how about we come back to the plot of my book a bit later, and I just explain to you why you're here right now. I'm kind of a method-writer, and I love doing very thorough research before I write a novel, to make sure it's realistic."

"Your Russian girl book – at least a very long way from realistic," she informs him, smirking.

"Yeah, all right, fine. But that's why I wanted to talk to you. You're actually _from _the world of my character. You could help make Nikki realistic."

"You do need much, much help."

"You're too kind."

"So you buy me just to talk about my home and my life?"

"Yes."

Her eyes narrow instantly, and she glares at him mistrustingly. "No man pays sixty-thousand dollars for a girl just to talk, Mr Castle," she snaps, her English curiously improved.

"But I did."

"You are lying."

"Not lying," he says, accidentally lilting into a Russian accent. Her voice, it's contagious. It invites you in. Her body language right now certainly does _not. _

"What knowing do you need from me?" she demands, settling back in her seat a little, though she's still stiff as a board.

"Everything. I want to know all about you."

Her face goes suddenly unreadable. Irreversibly blank. "I sign no contract telling I must talk to you about my past. I will not."

Suddenly, he's desperate to know. That probably makes him an asshole, but he can't help it. He's spent a whole lifetime learning how to spot stories, and she seems to be a veritable library of fascinating tales wrapped up in immeasurable hotness.

Like _wow. _

He's only known her a grand total of thirty minutes, but he's sure he's never met anyone like her before, and he's certain he never will again.

"It's okay. We don't have to start now. Or any time soon. You can just… settle in…" he murmurs, trying to swallow.

In a few minutes, she'll be living in his house.

He _so _did not think this through.

Well, he did a little bit, but he never thought he'd end up with someone like _her. _

Dear god, is he _ever _dead.

* * *

She's tempted to take him up on his offer of Not Talking about it now, but his comment about not really needing a bride got her worried. She'd better at least _pretend_ she's going to be useful, or he might change his mind right now and tip her out of the car.

"No, I will help now. You keep telling to me your story. I will keep telling to you the wrongs. So many of the wrong things." Her English is carefully faulty. She slipped up before, when she was mad – she spoke well. It doesn't work with the image she's trying to manufacture.

He smiles at her a little. He looks… fascinated?

"Ok," he resumes, sounding like an excited kid and making her roll her eyes. "So she… _doesn't_ go to the Russian mob, right? Because that would make her stupid."

Kate nods. "Why would they take someone like her? Russian brides are here because they are weak. They had bad boyfriend back there, or none of the money, or no home. Even the girls who get violent husbands, cruel husbands… often, they have been escaping something worse. The Russian mob would not want a girl like her, unless…"

"Unless what?" Castle asks a little too eagerly, and she raises an eyebrow.

He amuses her.

_No, he doesn't, _she reminds herself forcibly. She's supposed to hate him. She promised herself that on the plane ride over. She would never be lulled into the easiness of the lives of these American people.

"Unless she had… assets… for bringing to the leaders. Or pretending she would bring to them. You can get a very far way on a good lie."

Castle's staring at her like she's a genie's lantern. When the light turns green, she has to poke him to wake him up enough to keep driving.

"All right," he says finally. "And through some subterfuge and a few very clever moves that all happen before the book begins, she works her way up to the top. She runs an underground poker ring, and makes a killing. And then she gets over her head."

Kate scoffs at him.

"What?" he asks. "What now?"

"You said she clever. You do not get to top of Russian mob and then be stupid enough to _get over your head._"

"Okay, maybe someone _else _gets over their head, and she tries to help them, then gets pulled into the trouble."

"Someone get in deep, and you let them go. We learn this young," she counters. "Why is she risking all of what she has?"

* * *

Castle thinks about this for a moment.

Well, there's only one reason you give up everything, just for a chance.

Love.

"Because she loves him. The boy who gets over his head," he supplies, chuffed with himself and his literary genius.

She hisses disbelievingly. "None of a chance. Who does she love? If he a Russian mob boy, the others would take care of it. Not her."

"Maybe someone from before? From when she first came to America?" he ponders as his building comes into sight. He glides the Ferrari smoothly into the underground parking complex, and brings it masterfully to a halt. Or, at least, he considered it masterful. Her expression reads distinctly unimpressed.

It makes him want to work harder. To have that eyebrow raise be one of approval.

"If you make her love her bad old man of a husband," Beckett tells him, "I no help you. Ever."

She slinks out of the car, all grace and elegance, and he clenches his fists tightly.

There's something about her.

Not just about how beautiful she looks, either. He's had more fun building a storyline with her in her broken English in the last half an hour than he has in months. He can't even really explain it. It's stupid and ridiculous and cliché and he's disgusted with himself, but -

There's some kind of spark between them, and he's enthralled.

Just being in proximity to her makes the whorls of his fingertips burn and his villi tingle. He'll have to look these symptoms up on WebMD – he's been around pretty girls before, but he's never suffered anything quite as extreme as this.

They walk towards the elevator, continuing their conversation. "Of course not. Not the old businessman. Maybe he had a son. Maybe he quietly fell in love with her behind his father's back. And then she ran away to the Russian mob, and he spent years tracking her down, and ended up mixing with the wrong people when he tried to find her. They would've had to be young when they first met, so time can have gone by, but they can still kick ass. The boy – he might have been twenty, twenty-one, when she arrived. And Nikki… she could've been… nineteen?"

Beckett flinches. Hard, like he's slapped her.

Instantly, he knows. Something happened to Katherine Beckett, and it was bad. Bad enough to climb through the years between then and now and sting her heart as she stands next to him in an elevator, heading up to her new home in America.

Whatever happened, he's pretty sure it went down when she was nineteen.

And somehow, he's going to get her to trust him enough to tell him what it was.

* * *

**Okay, so I totally meant to wait to tomorrow to release this chapter, but you were all so lovely in your reviews I felt like you deserved it early.**

**I hope you enjoyed it. Don't hesitate to comment/complain/review. **

**x.**


	4. 4 - A Lot of Room and No Regrets

**Again, I've been blown away by how many people are enjoying this story. Most of you have been very unconditionally kind, and I'm very grateful.**

**I just ask that a few of you remember I'm a high schooler with a laptop on , not a PhD student aspiring for the Man Booker prize: lower those expectations a little, I'm taking the story wherever I want, and if you don't like it, you can jump off the wagon at any time.**

**For a few of you: remember Alexis _ISN'T _****in this story. It's enough of a stretch to have Castle buy a Russian Bride, but even I couldn't write an AU so OOC that he would do this while taking care of a small child.**

**ALL NOTE:****_This story is going to largely being funny, with splashes of action and drama. But I do at times (especially at the beginning) need to address just a few darker elements (like why Beckett came from Russia, etc), but don't worry, this will never spiral down into a pool of angst and gobble up the story - I'm just doing what I feel is right to keep some of the realism. I also don't want to get them together super-fast, or make them besties too quickly; remember how they were in the show, and take into consideration the absurdity of their situation in my AU. Have no fear, however, they'll definitely hit it off, but one of my pet hates in stories is when they know each other like 3 days and are then are like "I'll always love you", especially when the characters are experienced adults.  
This message was kind of a downer, but I promise I have much fun ready for this story. The advantage of such a ridiculous AU is the myriad of brand new situations we can explore. It'll be fun, I swear on the break room's coffee machine._**

**Now that that's out of the way, let the 4th Daily Hunger Games begin...**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 4  
****a caskett fanfiction**

The rest of the elevator ride is quiet.

He doesn't keep babbling about his story (which she refuses to admit sounds interesting, if slightly dodgy fact-wise), and she doesn't mention her violent reaction to a simple number.

She can see his mind whirring over it, though.

She wishes she'd had enough self-control to keep still. Hopefully, he'll get distracted enough by showing off his penthouse to her that he'll forget about it all together.

The doors of the lift open up onto a wide corridor. He leads her to the large door on the left, carefully unlocking it and holding it wide open, motioning for her to precede him into the foyer. He's got an adorable (not, _not _adorable, not even a bit) grin on his face, like she's come back in time and brought Christmas to him six months early.

She can't help but let her jaw drop a little in shock when she walks into his home.

The loft is beautiful. It's modern, spacious, and not overly furnished with tawdry trinkets to show his wealth – not at all as she'd anticipated. It's nothing like the tiny, cramped apartment she'd been forced to move to after her father had started drinking away every cent they had. Everything from the dark leather couch to the kitchen island is tasteful. There is a whole wall of bookshelves, which she is immediately drawn to.

She should probably ask his permission before prowling around his apartment, but Katherine Beckett has never been the kind to ask for permission.

She catches sight of a book spine with _Richard Castle _proudly inscribed down it in large letters. She starts in shock, pulling the tome from where it is nestled between its predecessor and sequel.

Beckett holds it up.

"You are this Richard Castle?" she demands, feeling a whole collection of different emotions whirling up inside her veins, draining her focus so she doesn't notice her English slip into accuracy.

"Yes," he smiles. "Why, have you read my stuff? I know they have Derrick Storm in Russia."

"No," she breathes, forcing her face to remain blank when she turns to face him. "I have just seen your books around."

Because she's not about to tell him her mother used to read them. That they were Johanna's favourite – she'd always been fascinated with the Americans. Kate had never been able to read them, because they were published in English in Kiev, mostly. After her mother died, Kate had learned the language in order to be able to live in New York easily, and had ended up reading his books as practice. The memories of watching her mother blaze through them, exclaiming in horror at various plot twists, often made her cry as she herself turned them.

Maybe those pages are marked with his thoughts, but they're covered in her memories.

She shudders a little at the strangeness of them being connected across many years and thousands of miles, never knowing they would meet.

Or, you know, end up married.

No. She's not about to tell him that about her past, about her mother. He doesn't need to know. He never will.

She makes an effort to shut down the odd inclination to just give him her whole story. He looks like he'd be a good listener.

But she hasn't properly talked to anyone in years, much less really trusted them – she's far too out of practice.

He must sense something is wrong with her, because he changes the topic. He doesn't ask her to tell him more, not about her (poorly-concealed) reaction to his book, or to the number nineteen, which she is very grateful about.

"So… do you want to see your room?" Castle asks kindly, his blue eyes alight with something interesting and unidentifiable.

Oh, is she ever glad for this new distraction.

"I have room?" She tilts her head in genuine confusion. "But… this…" – she gestures between the two of them – "This is for the researching. It is not for permanent," she elaborates.

He doesn't need to give her a room.

His eyes widen. They're a curious blue colour, reminding her of some of the lakes outside her own city. "I'm not going to make you sleep on the couch, though! I've got way too much space as it is. And how long you stay here is up to you. I mean, I'm the one who rudely took you away from your country."

He looks like he feels bad about that, like he hadn't really thought this through. She takes pity on him. She _is _using him quite spectacularly, after all.

He's a stepping stone to solving her mother's murder, and he doesn't even know. She wonders if he'd mind if he _did_ know – apparently, he has a thing for mysteries.  
"I am wanting to be in your country, Mr Castle. You are helping me," she informs him.

Castle perks up, looking delighted. "_I'm _helping _you?_" he asks incredulously.

"Yes."

He hesitates for a moment, clearly something on his mind. "If you don't mind my asking… why do you want to be in America so badly as to marry a stranger?"  
She shifts from foot to foot. Beckett isn't able to tell him the whole truth, but if it's too much of a lie, he'll pick up on it, she's sure. "I am looking for a few answers. And… things got bad. I needed to leave."

_I needed to leave before my father drew me down into the bottle with him. _

"Okay. Fair enough. We… we can talk more about it later. And you can talk to me about anything, you know? About the answers, or… things getting back. They say strangers are the best listeners."

* * *

It feels peculiar calling her a stranger, when she seems like anything but.

Yet she is. She doesn't know him, and he doesn't know her, however much he wants to.

He takes her upstairs, and shows her the room he's set aside for her. Makes sure she knows that the door locks, in case she feels unsafe. He hopes she doesn't.

Castle has temporarily relocated to the room across the hall from hers, in case she needs anything in the middle of the night while she's settling in.

"The bathroom is through here…" he indicates the door that leads to the en-suite. "And this is the wardrobe for your clothes…"

She's glaring pointedly at him.

He remembers she doesn't have any clothes.

A mental image pops into his mind that he has to shut down immediately.

"We can get you some tomorrow. There are a few boutiques just across the road; I'm sure we can find something you'd like. I'll lend you some of mine for now, if that's okay."

"I am lacking in the choice, am I not?" she responds dryly. But she doesn't seem to mind.

"Kinda." He can't help but grin a little. He's not totally sure why. "I'll leave you to poke around. I'm going to get started on something for us to eat. Is macaroni and cheese okay for you?"

"I do not know what this is," she tells him truthfully.

He'll have to show her sometime. But maybe not today. She needs time to settle in, and though mac and cheese may be a comfort food for him, it'll just be some curious foreign cuisine for her.

"What about pizza?"

She grins. "I know what that is. I like the pizza."

He smiles back. "Who doesn't like the pizza?"

Castle darts downstairs quickly before he can be an idiot and stare at her too long.

As he's pulling the takeout menus out of his draw, the reality of the situation suddenly sweeps over him.

_Oh. God.  
_

He's going to be living with this girl _indefinitely. _This super-hot, super-mysterious Russian girl who came to America to look for answers and escape something dark back home is going to be sleeping under his roof. She's everything he was looking for in the inspiration department, and something more elsewhere. He feels like he's been plunged into a strange reality show.

Buying Katherine Beckett was probably one of the worst decisions of his entire life, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to feel that way, not when right now, she feels like one of the very best.

* * *

**I know this chapter was kind of short, but I promise the next one will be longer. **

**And other characters will be showing up eventually - Esposito arrives in chapter 6ish, and a few of the others will follow after that. **

**I hope you're all still enjoying the story, and I love all of your reviews. Am I supposed to reply to them, or would that be annoying? **

**Also, I live in Australia, so I'm in a totally different time for most of my readers. What's a convenient time for you guys for me to post? **

**See you tomorrow,**

**x. M**


	5. 5 - Halo to You Too

**Hello**

**On the advice of some readers/writer far more experienced at this gig than I (that may have sounded sarcastic in text but I actually genuinely mean it) I'm going to cut my author's notes on the story line and you guys can figure it out for yourselves.**

**Have fun!**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 5  
****a caskett fanfiction**

Beckett prowls carefully around her room.

She decides she doesn't like it.

It's too nice. _He's _too nice.

She feels oddly safe, and she _hates _it. She's not supposed to feel safe here. She's supposed to be constantly on guard: a vigilant soldier.

But this Richard Castle is making it more difficult than she thought it would be. He hasn't made a move on her against her will. He hasn't tried to pressure her to go somewhere or do something she doesn't want to. He's come straight out with why he bought her, and he doesn't seem to be harbouring any ulterior motives at all.

His genuine bashful kindness is grating on her nerves. Why is he being good to her? Sure, you don't want to ruin something you paid sixty grand for, but still.

Beckett shakes her head to clear it. She will ponder the inner workings of this unfathomable American later. Now, she needs to focus on documenting her surroundings.

First, she needs to find a space in this room that is easy to defend and hard to get trapped in, in case this current demeanour is just a façade and he intends to harm her later.

She needs to have some kind of home field advantage, even if it is technically _his _home field.

The back corner is good – if the need arises, she can duck and roll, and trap him there, limiting his mobility, giving her time to escape.

Kate then proceeds to thoroughly inspect every aspect of the room. It's bigger than the entire apartment she left her father in back in Kiev.

The bed is large, far too large for just one person. Beckett has always lived in a small home, despite her parents being lawyers – it was hard times when Kate was born, and while she'd never been left needing, she'd been left wanting more than once. This bed could fit at least four people in, if you organised it smartly.

She checks each of the cupboards, and can't help but scoff. Who has enough things to fill all of this space? She's not exactly destitute, but she is pragmatic beyond belief. Beckett, a product of her times, always had been, but has become even more so after her mother's death.

She shuts that thought down, and migrates to the bathroom.

The showerhead is ridiculous – the size of a dinner plate. It would be an incredible waste of water. Clearly Richard Castle doesn't mind wasting things, though. After all, he wasted a lot of money on her, didn't he?

_Book research.  
_

Ridiculous.

(Interesting).

* * *

His head snaps up as she comes down the stairs.

His brain can't help but vividly document the liquid way she has of moving – like she doesn't really care if her legs bother to step or not.

"Pizza's ordered," he manages.

He better get over this Beckett-induced speech disorder, or it'll get old for her fast. She nods in acknowledgement of what he's said. He can't help but notice she looks a little drained. "Are you tired, Katherine?"

"Beckett," she corrects, her eyes trained on the floor. He can see her glare, though.

Katherine is clearly off the table. He finds he's okay with that. He wonders if she'll let him call her 'Kate' – he thinks it would suit her. Now is clearly not the time to test it out, though. "All right. Beckett. Are you tired? Isn't Kiev like seven hours ahead of New York? It must be around two in the morning for you."

She shrugs. "I am going to be adjusting to the America, am I not? I cannot just be sleeping whenever the sleepiness comes."

The way she says 'sleepiness' is utterly adorable. Castle doubts she'd appreciate being told as much.

"Do you want to do something fun until the pizza comes?" he asks, trying to distract her.

(It's selfish, but he doesn't really want her to go to sleep. She's too interesting awake.)

But now she's looking at him with heavy overtones of suspicion. "What is the kind of fun things?"

"Guitar Hero? Halo?" he suggests.

"What are these?"

"Video games. You know, like interactive television."

"I have never done these before."

"I'll teach you. It's interesting. I promise."

She considers it for a moment. "I will do this fun Halo thing," she decides.

He grins, leading her over to the massive 80 inch screen he's got, successfully adding powerful overtones of bachelor to his apartment.

He's careful not to sit too close to her on the couch, partially so as not to scare her off, but more than a little bit because he himself couldn't handle it.

Castle explains the game and techniques in great detail, before deciding the best way to learn is on the job. At first, she's a little startled by the graphics, but she adapts quickly.

So quickly, in fact, it's looking like she's going to beat him soon.

The doorbell rings, and he pauses the game to go and get the food.

He is gone a grand total of five minutes (America has pizza delivery down to a fine art), but by the time he returns, the sound of the game has resumed.

"Hey!" he gasps.

She looks at him curiously, unaware she's broken the sacred code of Not Hitting Play While Someone's Getting Food. "I am getting bored, so I press the triangle.

These boys with guns come while you are with your pizza. Your little screen man is dead now, Mr Castle," she deadpans, the controller draped loosely in her long fingers. "And my little screen man is still alive."

"That's cheating. You cheated!" he tells her, incredulous and a little amused.

She tilts her head. "Is not cheating. I did not shoot your little man. But – I did not stop the one who did. Maybe was cheating. I do not mind. I win."

He gapes at her.

"Do not look so horrified, Mr Castle. I go to Moskova, once. They play this game there as well. But when they play, it is not little TV man who get shot. It is you."

He can't help but wonder about the things she's seen that allow her to talk about getting shot so casually.

* * *

She wouldn't normally do something as silly as play a game with him, but she manages to convince herself that it contributes to her overarching plan.

Pretend to be a good, domestic wife – well, book research person, until he trusts her. Until he builds some kind of routine around her. Until he leaves her alone.

Then everything will kick into action.

(It's definitely _not _because playing the game was fun. Well, maybe it was a little fun. The beating him part, at least.)

All she needs is for him to like her enough that he'll vouch for her first, and then ask questions later if the cops come knocking.

Obviously, this Halo game is a fast lane to this man's heart. As, apparently, is pizza.

In the end, she only manages to eat one slice. The pieces in this city are huge, and it's far greasier than anything she's used to.

One leg draped languidly over the other, she sits on the couch while he eats, reading the pizza box. Most of these words are not ones she has encountered before, and if this is the kind of thing Americans can read, she'd better make an effort to learn it. She realises she knows none of the slang here, meaning that in this city, she'll stick out like a sore thumb.

"What is this Authentic Original? Why does Nick need both?" she demands. "Is not one enough? Does he _try_ and confuse his eaters?"

She can tell he's smiling behind the hand he's holding in front of his mouth. She wonders why he does that – it's as if someone chewing food is a horrific sight she shouldn't be exposed to. "No. There are just a lot of Nick's Pizza places."

"Why not say, Nick 1, and then, Nick 2, and keep going with all the numbers?" she presses. Her suggestions seems like a better system, but she'd better at least attempt to figure theirs out.

"I don't know."

"Is silly."

"Yep. Good pizza though."

She hums noncommittally. She misses the food from home, but she's not going to let him know that. From what she's gathered of him, he'd probably just drag her to a Ukrainian restaurant to make her feel better. Which it wouldn't, of course. She'd just miss it even more.

It's funny – she shouldn't be homesick yet. She only hopped on a plane less than a day ago.

But it's something about knowing she might never get to go back that makes New York suddenly seem a lot greyer, a lot more claustrophobic than it would if she were here to take in the sights.

Or maybe it's just the knowledge that her mother was killed in this city.

* * *

**So I've never really played Halo that much, but as far as I can tell from this chapter, I didn't get any facts wrong. **

**NO SPOILERS, but clearing a few things up:**

**Just a note for one Guest who seems to have mis-interpreted me when I mentioned "reviews" and "posting times" in the same paragraph: I was merely asking what time was convenient to update, not threatening to withhold chapters if I don't get reviews. Much as I love comments, I do not rely on them like a blood thirsty vampire. My Number 1 priority is us all having fun with this, and that plan does not include me being a bitch and demanding from nice readers such as yourself. We all came here to have a good time.**

**Also, for the few readers who seemed to have missed my mentioning this in my last few A/Ns: I repeat, Alexis is NOT NOT _NOT_ in this story. Castle has NO CHILD. If people are interested, I can work her in as another character (maybe that's what some of you meant), like just Lanie's intern, etc. Drop me a line.**

**See you tomorrow, same time as usual.**

**x. M**

**P.S. Thank you to whoever the lovely anonymous was who mentioned me on castlefanfic's tumblr. It was very muchly kind of you.**

**Also, I am hearing about tweets? I haven't got twitter, so I can't really find out what was said, but if it was nice, thanks. If not, I'm glad I don't have twitter.**


	6. 6 - In the Dark of the Night

**Sorry for the late update, I got distracted watching Wednesday Night shows making fun of the leaders of my country. **

**I know a lot of you will probably have an issue with one thing I address in this chapter, but I just think it's something I shouldn't take for granted in my story, so bear in mind these two have only just met, Kate's a woman with a mission, and kindly keep reviews constructive and civil.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 6  
****a caskett fanfiction**

He lends her one of his superhero t-shirts and a pair of shorts to sleep in. He has to stare at the ceiling while he bids her goodnight, because the sight of her in his clothes gives him little domestic butterflies, and he needs to shut that down ASAP.

Castle lies on his back into the small hours, unable to find rest.

Everything is different.

Buying a Russian Bride was a stupid, reckless move, born of money and boredom. He shouldn't have done it. He upended some girl's entire life just for _book research.  
_

But.

But she said he was helping her. And, if he hadn't bought her, then someone else would. Maybe someone bad. His stomach clenches at the thought.

It clenches tighter at the realisation that that is what she expected from him – someone she would have to fend away the punches from.

He vows to make coming to New York the best decision of her life, because while perhaps purchasing her was not the most reasonable decision of his, he can't bring a single capillary in his body to regret it.

Castle starts awake to the sound of screaming.

Loud. Horrified. Broken.

It reverberates through his skull, the tangible and unbearable pain behind the noise. It perforates his thoughts and tears them into pieces.

He's up and out of his bed within seconds. It takes a few moments for it even to compute who might be yelling – he lives alone, after all.

And then thoughts of Beckett writhing and crying, caught tight within the iron fist of dreams, curl through his mind like the darkest smoke.

He darts across the hallway, cursing it for being so wide.

(It's only two metres.)

Castle tries the handle on her door. It's locked.

He doesn't blame her - she had no reason to trust him not to try anything.

But in this moment, he _hates _that lock. It means he can't see her, can't wake her, doesn't even get to have a chance to calm her down.

"Beckett!" he shouts through the door as loud as he can, wishing desperately to reach her. "Beckett! Beckett - it's okay! You're okay. You're safe here. I promise."

She keeps screaming.

She sounds terrified.

He wonders what could possibly be in that head of hers to cause her so much raw, heart wrenching pain. So much hurt that she can barely breathe.

He calls her again and again, until eventually, the nightmare seems to stop. He tries her name a few more times, but it's quickly apparent that she's not going to reply.

After what feels like hours, he retreats back to his room, wanting to give her the space she clearly desires.

Normally, if he orders something off the internet that's broken, he sends it back.

She's clearly broken, but he's never sending her back. Never. Unless she wants to go.

(He hopes so much she doesn't.)

* * *

She doesn't fall back asleep after his voice tugs her from the nightmare.

She has these kinds of dreams quite frequently, at least six times a week. They're not normally this bad, though. The images of her mother are usually blurry and faint, like the tears of a ghost, not a vivid and realistic film clip of Johanna Beckett struggling to hang onto the last vestiges of life she had in her bones.

Beckett would never admit it, not even under torture, but she's glad he was there to wake her.

She realised, last night, with shock and no small amount of horror, that somewhere between a discreet airfield in Kiev and a too-big bedroom in New York, he suddenly became all she has in the world.

No that she _has _him, exactly. In fact, if anything, _he _has _her. _And he's got the receipt for sixty grand to prove it.

Yet in this strange city, he is now the only thing even vaguely familiar, even slightly recognisable.

And that's not good.

No matter how kind he's been to her so far, that attitude could change faster than the player winning at a Monopoly game. She's heard horror stories from dozens of other girls. She can't afford to form any kind of reliance on him, or expectations of him.

Yes, she's thankful he stopped her from having to endure the traumatic entirety of that dream.

But that will never happen again. She won't let it.

She can let him think she's soft during the day, but she can't let him know she's haunted and weak during the night.

There is too much to lose.

* * *

Castle can tell by her face, as soon as she comes downstairs, that she does _not _want to talk about last night. Not even a little bit. She violently radiates extreme reluctance.

"Hey," he says.

She at least _tries _not to glare at him. He'll give her that much. But a scowl seems to settle on her brow anyway, as if her face is used to this arrangement, and it's too late to break the pattern now.

"Coffee?" he offers.

She gazes at him appraisingly for a few moments before nodding slowly. He quickly pours her a mug and hands it to her, before she can change her mind and reject his hospitality.

Besides, she looks like she could use some coffee. If the stormy tiredness is anything to go by, she slept even worse than he did.

He's not surprised. That was one hell of a nightmare.

He's desperate to know what it was about.

He's desperate to hold her and make it okay.

But he's not allowed to do that, because while she may be his wife, they're not even friends yet. Not really.

'Yet', however, is the operative word here.

He'll wear her down into trusting him eventually.

She slides onto one of the barstools across from him, and delicately wraps her fingers around the warmth of the cup. Beckett sips at the coffee, and then makes a face.

"What?" he asks immediately, worried he's managed to let her down somehow even before eight in the morning. "Is something wrong?"

She wrinkles her nose. It's super cute. "This is American coffee? Is not very strong. It is because of this you all walk like zombies."

He's caught off guard. "We walk like zombies?"

Okay, so maybe she's a hundred times more carelessly graceful that he is, but he wouldn't liken himself to the _undead. _

"Little. Little," she smirks, and he wonders again if she's teasing him.

If she is, it's certainly working.

Beckett seems to move past her issues with his unsatisfactory coffee, and drinks it with him in companionable silence.

After she drains her mug, she sets it back down, looking at him carefully. "I have question."

"Shoot," he tells her. Her brow furrows in intense confusion, trying to figure out what he's asking her to do. "I mean, go ahead. Ask away."

"When you are having the other girls over here, where is it that you are wanting me to go? These American girls, I am told they do not like the Russian wives. They all want to be your _one true love, _do they not?"

He's startled by her query. "You're asking if I want you to hide if I bring other girls around?"

She smirks again. "I could stay here but I think this may ruin things for you a little."

He hadn't really thought this through, had he? "But – but I'm not going to bring other girls over here."

Beckett raises her eyebrows incredulously. "No? Do not have the shy, Mr Castle. I know how this is working. Is just easier to make these deals now, than later. Or too late. Can end up awkward."

"We're – we're married, though," he stutters. Dodgy Vegas-like deal or not, he still has his morals and his ideals.

She looks at him a little pityingly. "I am for book researching. You are not having to pretend now, Mr Castle."

"You can call me Rick, you know."

"Is odd to say. I call you Castle," she decides. "But my point, again. You tell me where and when I am supposed to wander off to, and I will go."

He can't _believe _she genuinely expects him to do this to her. Leave a quick note to his _wife _to tell her to get out of the house for a few hours.

Hell no.

He may be Page 6's favourite playboy, but…

It would sit wrong with him. Way, way, wrong. He hadn't really thought this particular part through, but this is how it's going to have to be.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, he makes himself a promise when it comes to her. Somehow, he'll erase these low standards she has of him. He'll make her expect the best, not the worst. And when she does, he won't let her down.

"I think we'll leave it at just us for now, how does that sound? I know we're not actually married, but I'd feel like I was stepping out, you know? So you don't need to go anywhere. That's not a situation that's going to arise," he tells her frankly.

* * *

Damn.

She's thought that plan was pretty foolproof. He's a young guy; of course he's going to want girls. The ploy should have been a simple and effective way to give her a set of house keys, and a few daylight hours every week she won't have to account for.

Besides, she would've had to ask eventually anyway. It's not like any of the girls back in Europe, when they were being trained (re: being told to shut up and be obedient to their husbands, because her sellers do not love refunds), actually expected their husband to treat them like a _wife.  
_

So she'd neatly wrapped it up so it worked well for both of them.

It had seemed a pretty good move to her.

And then he had to ruin it with some ancient American chivalry. She'd been told that kind of thing was dead.

Huh.

So maybe her best move isn't to distract him with other shiny toys, because that might not be as easy as she'd originally surmised.

No, she'll get him to like her enough that when she asks for freedom, he won't mind at all.

(It doesn't occur to her that somewhere in the middle of this process, she might end up liking him, too.)

"Now that we've cleared that up," he says, rudely interrupting her silent reverie with that irritatingly endearing smirk of his, "how about we get you some clothes?"

* * *

**I know that the whole asking about other girls might have rubbed a few of you the wrong way, but given Rick is at the playboy stage of his life, I couldn't just NOT acknowledge how their situation was going to work.**

**See you tomorrow**

**x. M**

**P.S. I know I don't reply to reviews unless there's something to discuss, but I love all of them and they really mean a lot to me, so thanks to every single one of you who reviewed. **


	7. 7 - Leathers & Long Losts

**Hey everyone,**

**So I hope you enjoy this one. I think it'll be a little different to what you expected...**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 7  
****a caskett fanfiction**

He'd put the skirt and top she'd worn on the plane into the washer last night, thus enabling him to proudly re-present them to her this morning.

It's too bad. She pulls off his Iron Man tee a lot better than he does.

They retreat to their respective rooms to change. He finds himself actually _considering _what to wear, which makes him feel like a sixteen year old girl heading out on a first date.

He's already married to Beckett. Technically, this would be there honeymoon.

Castle almost laughs. So far, that's been pizza, Halo and nightmares. Way to show a girl a good time, Ricky.

For a writer, he's doing a pretty bad job of coming up with a way to describe his legal yet non-existent relationship with Beckett.

He watched a movie once where a girl lost her memories in a car accident, and didn't remember being married to her husband. He supposes this situation is something like that, except they _both_ have amnesia, and nothing but a dodgy-looking contract to prove they're married.

He re-emerges to find her waiting in the hallway for him, radiating careless beauty. He's going to need an asthma puffer or something if he keeps spending time around her.

"So, where do you want to go first?" he asks, mostly to give his mouth a job that does not include kissing her. That would be a terrible (amazing) idea. What kind of horrible person would he be if he kissed his new wife? After a moment, he realises how that sounds, and almost laughs. "We can go anywhere, get anything you want."

"Your Statue of Liberty is very pretty. What if I am wanting this?" she challenges.

He grins. "I might have to pull a few strings, but I have some friends in high places, you know."

She almost laughs, he can tell. It's difficult not to swell with pride at the thought. "I am joking, but you know this. As pretty as your statue is, I have nowhere to put it. Can we buy a jacket?"

"Sure. There's a leather shop around a block away, and some other clothing stores around if you want something softer. Are you cold? Because -"

She rolls her eyes. "I am from Kiev. This is the swimming weather there."

"You're from Kiev? That's not in Russia."

She appears to be genuinely surprised at his grasp at geography. "No. Is not. I am aware. But how many ads are you seeing that offer Ukrainian Brides?"

He can't stop himself. "There should be hundreds, if they're all as pretty as you."

She smirks playfully. "They are not. Is a shame there is not more of me to go round." She's clearly kidding again, but he thinks she's more right than she knows.

"Well, I guess I'm just extra lucky then, aren't I?" he smiles.

There is a tense moment of silence between them as they both realise he's being sincere.

* * *

She likes the leather shop.

The smell, the atmosphere – it's not all that dissimilar to the places she used to go in Kiev. Beckett tugs on a few of the different jackets, enjoying the feel and look of them.

She's never been one to shy away from fashion or play down her femininity – it's a useful and powerful tool, she's found. Men always proclaim to be players, but they themselves are surprisingly easy to play. Plus, nothing wrong with feeling good, right?

However, she also needs to find an ensemble that will strike a little fear into the hearts of those with information on her mother's case, and hopefully inspire some co-operation. Also something that doesn't make her appear an easy target to those in a less charitable mood.

A tall, tattooed guy with a friendly demeanour ducks into their corner of the store. "Hey there, guys. I'm Razza. Could I give you a hand?"

"Hi. Um… we're just looking at jackets," Castle supplies. But he must send off a helpless, inexperienced kind of vibe (it's certainly not _her_ who looks to be in need of help), because Razza nods knowingly.

"That's more Espo's area – I'm the shoes guy. Give me a tick, and I'll send him over."

After a few moments, a slightly stockier, shorter and distinctly tattoo-free man strides around the racks of clothing to greet them. He walks like someone who's confident he'll be the last man standing in a bar fight.

"Hello, I'm Esposito. What can I do for you?"

But Beckett barely hears his words. All her auditory nerve is picking up is the lilt in his voice, the tang that screams of home. All her eyes can see is the vague familiarity about his jawline, the gleam of his irises, the raise-ready eyebrows.

A puzzled expression of semi-recognition is forming on his brow, probably mirroring hers.

"Kate Beckett?"

"Javi?"

* * *

Okay, so she definitely knows this chap. If he is correct in his assumption that the rapid fire conversation flowing between them is being carried out in Ukrainian (or Russian, they likely speak both), then she probably knows him from home.

The only real question is in what context.

After a few seconds of chatting (god, he'll never tire of hearing her talk), they hug. He feels a spike of _something _rake through his chest, like a dragon's claw dragging up from his sternum, but he's not sure what it is.

It can't be jealousy, surely. He's known her less than twenty-four hours.

Has it really only been that long? It feels like years. It shouldn't.

Okay, so it's obviously not jealousy, but he can't help but wonder if this Esposito guy is an old boyfriend. Or a more recent boyfriend.

Seeing as he clearly cannot keep up with this conversation they're currently having, he mentally rewinds back to the few moments before in an attempt to riddle this new development out.

He'd been a little distracted by the not-so-subtle awed thumbs up of "onya, mate" Razza had shot him as he walked away as Castle sat on a small couch-like seat beside his kind-of-wife.

He wishes he'd done something to earn that thumbs up – that he'd done something to earn her.

Then this _Javi _bloke had swaggered around the corner, and BAM. Nostalgia mecca.

Beckett – Kate? – finally seems to remember Castle exists, and turns around to introduce the two men. "Castle? This is my friend from Kiev, Javier Esposito. He and his mother used to live across the hall from me. He left for the Americas when we were sixteen," she informs him. Then, apparently reading his mind, adds, "Is like little brother."

"Big brother," Esposito gently corrects, smirking.

"Eh…" Beckett shrugs. "No. I am thinking little." She grins.

Castle relaxes, and then feels like an asshole. It wouldn't have been his business even if this Javier fellow really had been an old boyfriend. Beckett's allowed to go out with whoever she wants.

(He'd rather it was him).

He feels stupidly comforted, however, at the sibling-like relationship that apparently exists between them. Come to think of it, that hug had had more of a bro-vibe, not clinging RST.

"I think I keep trying on these jacket. I tell you when I find one," Beckett tells Espo.

He nods, and it seems for a moment that he'll head off. However, Javier "Little Brother" Esposito merely waits for Kate to become distracted before stalking over to where Castle sits, and companionably dropping down on the small leather seat beside him.

"Becks tells me you are her husband now," he begins casually. His accent is less distinct than Beckett's, but definitely there.

"Yeah. I guess," Castle responds, trying not to sound slightly terrified.

"I am under no illusions, Mr Castle, as to how you became that way," Esposito carries on. "And she can call me little brother all she wants, but if you lay one single finger on that girl, I will make sure that finger permanently points a different direction to the rest. And then I will become very, very, very _big brother,_ if you understand what I mean."

"Loud and clear. But it's not like that. I swear." He feels a sudden need to defend his honour. "I – I'm not _that _guy. She's just helping me out with book research. We're not doing… _that… _kind of stuff."

Esposito scoffs. "Russian may be easier for me to understand than English," he says in low tones, "but there is nothing difficult to understand about the way you are looking at her."

* * *

**I didn't do that to make Rick seem like a prick, I felt it was something valid to pop into his head. But each to their own. Hope you're still enjoying the story! Things should start moving a little faster soon as we get into a bit of the action. Don't worry, there are plenty of Rick/Kate bonding scenes coming up as well as they both begin to figure each other out. Be patient.**

**x. M**

**Thanks for all your lovely reviews, you guys are the best readers ever. **


	8. 8 - Scribble & Dash

**Hi guys,**

**So apparently there have been a few issues with accuracy in regards to citizenship with America. I did say in Chp1 that all Kate's documentation proving her identity had been stolen by some tidy-uppers for her mother's killer, but if this is not sufficient, I may just remove the fact that Kate had an American grandparent.**

**As for the Esposito being Latin issue, I hopefully cleared that up a little in this chapter.**

**I'm sorry for the imprecise parts of this story, but this is fanfiction, not a research paper. It takes quite a lot of time to write, and I have a lot of other things to do as well. I'll try my best to correct what you guys point out, but that may not always be possible.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 8  
****a caskett fanfiction**

Beckett spends a few moments tossing up between jackets before Castle simply suggests they get both.

"No," she tells him firmly. "You are not paying two."

He sighs. "Beckett, I'm a millionaire. I can buy you the whole store."

"You a millionaire?"

Castle shrugs. "Well, yeah."

She narrows her eyes. "A millionaire you will not stay if you keep buying people two of everything," she informs him.

"Just this once, okay?" he wheedles, perhaps just eager to get out of the store. "Come on. Consider it helping to create a visual for my character. One jacket for kicking ass, one for taking names."

She smiles a little at that, and before she can stop herself, a piece of her past slips through her lips. "This one – is reminding me of my motorcycling one from Kiev."

She tilts her head in curiosity as Castle seems to choke a little on that segment of information. "You – you ride motorbikes?"

"Yes," she smirks. "I am very, very good at it."

He looks terribly torn for a moment, perhaps weighing up the benefits of offering to buy her a bike to use in America.

"Let's go pay for these," he manages after a significant delay. She can't help but be a little amused.

Espo rings up their purchase. "All right, Beckett, you're all set. What's say you give me your number, and I'll give you mine? We can catch up sometime soon, and I'll show you around the end of the city pretty boy probably doesn't need to go."

Beckett feels a little put-out. "I am not having number, Javi."

"Why don't you give your number, and then she can get in touch with you over the land line?" Castle suggests, pulling a notebook out of his pocket and proffering it to Esposito, who ignores it. Instead, the Ukrainian pulls out a pen, and writes his number along the inside of her arm. "There. No one can hide it from you now." He looks pointedly at Castle. "You give me a call if something's even a little up, okay?"

Beckett smirks. "You worry too much, Espo. See his hands? Only peoples he could hit are the little Halo peoples." She's really just saying this to placate her friend; she has no doubt Castle could be very dangerous if he wanted to. But, like Espo, he strikes her as the kind of man who only threatens to protect. She's not quite sure what to make of that.

(It means they could work. As _friends, _obviously.)

Javier's eyes suddenly light up. "You play Halo?"

Castle seems to sense a plane of connection between the two boys that is going well and truly over Beckett's head. "All the time. It's awesome as."

"I know, right? Have you got the new one?"

"I have _every _one." Castle looks smug. There is a pause. "Tell you what, Esposito. You come over some time for a Halo night. You can case out the place, and make sure it's good enough for your 'little sister' here."

Beckett's brow narrows into a glare. "You call me his little sister again and I will strangle you with this pretty jacket you buy me."

"She will," Espo supplies, his joking tone betrayed by the very real brotherly fear in his eyes.

* * *

Castle nods in acceptance. He hadn't really expected any other response – in fact, he'd looked forward to the one she gave him. He's discovering she's reliably and predictably enjoyable to tease. (He'd better get a foot in the door; it won't be long before she _really _figures out how easy it will be for _her _to tease him.)

"And Beckett? We'll get you a phone today, so you can call him any time you want, okay?" he offers, because despite his friendly invitation to Esposito, he can tell the other man isn't exactly placated yet either.

Castle's never had a sister, but he can only imagine how he'd feel, seeing her for the first time in years on her second day in a new and dangerous city, married yesterday to not only to a total stranger to him, but to her as well. But Espo's got no need to worry, and Castle will prove it to both of them.

Together, they leave the store and head back out onto the street, Kate wearing one of the leather jackets, the other draped over her arm.

She looks amazing and badass and huggable and fierce all at the same time.

"Esposito seems nice," Castle finally says, breaking the brief silence.

Beckett scoffs a little. "He was not always. Not as a small one. He cut all my hair off when we were the three."

"Really?" Castle laughs, almost able to picture miniature versions of the two.

"Yes. But he has had my back for everything. He is being an idiot from time to time, but he is the very best not-brother." She looks a tad shocked to have shared this much of her past with him, but she can't take the story back out of his brain, especially not with how tightly he's holding onto it. "His mother, she is Latin, and from this New York. His dad, he is being in Kiev, so she go over there to be with him. When his dad leave for good, his mother bring him back to her home," Beckett tells him, as if she owes him some explanation of Esposito and his past. "He is taking her name when his dad abandons them."

She's clearly starting to feel a little awkward, so he attempts to distract her. "So… Where to next? New York has everything. Jeans? T-shirts? Shoes? We could find you a Batman costume if you wanted."

Her face turns blank, and a little puzzled. "Batman Province?"

"No! Wait, what?"

"Or like a werewolf? A man bat."

"Come on, you must have Batman, even in Kiev!"

She shrugs. "I have not seen the Batman. He may be there, but I have not seen him."

"We are _so _having a movie marathon tonight." The glee leaks into his voice. He is momentarily distracted by a sign a little ahead of them. "Ooh, come on, Beckett. It's the _Scribble &amp; Dash. _It's my favourite bookstore."

Without thinking, he grabs her hand and tugs her after him.

* * *

She should be bothered by him holding her hand.

She's not.

That, in itself, is bothering. She's sure to let go of his fingers as soon as they enter the shop, and even the beautiful array of books do not manage to be quite enthralling enough for her to miss the briefly put-out expression flitting across his brow.

"Can I look at these? Is good for practicing English," she tells him honestly, itching to look at some of these American books.

"Of course. I'll meet you back here in twenty minutes. I'm going to go the crime section," he responds, and she can't help but wonder if he's going to admire his own books.

Not even necessarily for egotistical reasons. Just to make sure that the people reading them are having a good time.

She smiles at him, and they go their separate ways.

Kate wanders through the numerous sections, nothing _really _catching her eye, despite the many book jackets she reads. Eventually, she finds herself in the children's section, the only place in the store where the books are radically different from the ones available in Kiev.

The stories feature different animals, different places and different looking people. Despite having at least twenty years on the intended audience, Kate finds herself intensely curious about these stories, caught up in the bright pictures and the overwhelming innocence caught up between the pages.

She can almost imagine the two year olds coming to this area, staring at the page in wonderment through their rose-tinted glasses, unable to conceive a world in which monkeys in raincoats are not allowed to walk through Central Park.

Eventually, she picks up a few books and heads off to meet Castle. She convinces herself she's just getting them to make him think that her English reading level is even worse than her speaking, but really, she just wants the idealistic, fantastical glow that accompanies them. She has a feeling she will need the brightness in days to come.

* * *

He glances up from the book he's perusing (some new trash called _At Death's Door_) and catches sight of Beckett weaving her way through the crowd towards him.

Not that she has to do much weaving – the people practically part like the Red Sea for her.

She's clutching a couple of large, thin books in her hands, hugging them close to her chest.

He realises abruptly that they're picture books, the kind he might read to a child, if he had one.

"Hey there, Becks." he enquires pleasantly.

"No Becks."

"Esposito called you Becks," Castle counters unhelpfully, delighting in winding her up.

"Esposito will wish you never told me that."

"Kate, then? Beckett sounds too formal for someone I'm married to."

"No Kate. Maybe someday. But today – is Beckett."

His heart clenches. They have a _someday. _He knows she said it flippantly as a way of shaking him off, but her word choice is now irrevocably seared into his brain.

"… And I have some books. This one is puzzling me, however," she adds, tilting her head slightly in confusion and holding the slim volume out to him.

_'Little Tiny Giraffe's Great Big Adventure!' _the cover proclaims proudly, featuring a cartoon drawing of a gangly, wayward baby giraffe on the front.

"This giraffe," – she pronounces it _gi-raph_ – "he is making some very bad life decisions in this book, is he not? In Kiev, our story animals are much smarter. Do American children not already know not to take advice from snakes?"

"It's a metaphor, Beckett. The snake isn't supposed to teach children about _actual _snakes… just dangerous strangers."

"I know this. But how is your children to know which strangers is the sneaky snake and who is the helpful butterfly? You are just confusing them. Better to teach them to adventure with their friends in safe streets than only to talk to pretty strangers," she advises. "Better to teach them to walk like they are not afraid of anything."

"Are you afraid of anything?" he asks, before realising that's probably not an appropriate question.

He expects her to step back, to shy away or glare at him. But she doesn't. Instead, she steps closer, nearer than she's ever been.

That is _so _not helping anyone.

"Yes," she says, and it's quiet, because at this kind of proximity, nothing over a whisper is required. His brain burns with the million things that could possibly scare this woman. "Your terrible taste in literature. If you're going to get another book, at least get something to help you with your unrealistic plotlines."

She smirks playfully, and grabs a random tome off the True Crime shelf and pushes it into his hands. His fingers spark where she touched him, so much so that he nearly drops the copy of _All-American Murder – the Most Curious Cold Cases from the 80s &amp; 90s _that she carelessly gave him.

* * *

**So a few of you are saying that this fic isn't living up to your expectations/you aren't enjoying it anymore. As much as I'm sorry that I was not able to live up to your standards (fanficing is a hobby and not a job I am qualified for), it will not give me heart palpitations if you leave. I can recommend several great fics to turn your attention to. Don't stay and keep reading if you hate this, it'll just bring us both down. Oddly, I write because I enjoy it, not because you don't. **

**See you tomorrow! **

**Don't worry, mistrust over Castle will be clearly speedily after this chapter. I just wanted to keep it real in this department (however unrealistic I am in others), but I think that's been fulfilled now.**

**x.M**


	9. 9 - Hulk In

**Hey everyone!**

**Thanks for your lovely supportive reviews last chapter. I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn't upset about the constructive criticism some of you have shared with me (that helps me to make my story better), just a few pointless hate comments. **

**To the guest who found it ironic that Castle bought Beckett for research, but I am too lazy to do my own, I am trying. I have looked up a lot of stuff, but some details are hard to find. I do know that there are fanfiction writers who do tons of research for their stories, but I just don't have the time. Sorry.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 9  
****a caskett fanfiction**

He receives dozens of jealous glances from male retail workers (and one or two female ones) at the various shops when they glimpse him with Beckett. Castle's always considered himself quite a catch, but even he wouldn't hesitate to admit that she's kind of out of his league.

Despite his numerous protestations that she can buy whatever she wants (and numerous reminders that he _is _a millionaire and she _doesn't_ have to pay him back),

Kate sticks to a fairly minimalistic and exceptionally practical collection of attire. He can't help but wonder why. Maybe she just views his actions as charity, and that grates her the wrong way.

At around three in the afternoon, they take a cab back to the apartment, and Beckett keeps her gaze firmly glued on the streets flying by outside of the window. He makes a mental note to do some site seeing with her tomorrow, to get her more familiar with city: it's a dangerous enough place for native New Yorkers, let alone new comers.

Castle fully intends to follow through on his plans on a superhero movie marathon. "Beckett, would you like to see some of America's most valuable heroes in action, protecting our city?"

She tilts her head, looking up at him from where she's sitting cross legged on the couch, carefully typing Esposito's number into the Contact's List of the phone he bought her this afternoon. His is already in there. He wanted to get her a smartphone, but she insisted on a boring, heavily outdated model, telling him she "only will be needing to call sometimes" and not "be playing at firing cross little birds everywhere".

"You are talking of your NYPD?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Nope. Iron Man. Batman. The Hulk. Technically, they're not all in the same universe, but I'm sure you'll love them."

She shrugs. "I am having nothing else to do."

There are _so _many other things they could do, but he'll stick to the films for now. He pulls Netflix up onto his flat screen and starts up last year's Hulk movie, deciding they'll work their way up to Batman.

* * *

It's actually pretty all right, Kate decides. Certainly fast-paced. Sometimes the odd voices of the different characters make their English a little harder to understand, but it is good practice for her.

About halfway through, Castle hops to his feet, and returns a few minutes later with two glasses and a bottle.

"Fancy some wine, Beckett?"

She can't help it. It's a visceral reaction, programmed into her over the last five years. She flinches, hard, and has to stop herself from actually moving away from him.

"No thank you," she manages.

He looks at her curiously for a moment. "All right." Castle pours himself a glass, and resumes watching the film.

But the smell reminds her of the Kiev apartment on her father's worse days, when he drank all his available vodka (his drink of choice), and was forced to move onto wine to lacquer the path of his downward spiral. She can no longer focus on the film.

He is holding a liquid reminder of why she sold herself to come to this country, and suddenly the spell of newness and numbness that New York had cast over her for a few hours is irreparably lifted.

"Am tired!" she announces loudly, jumping to her feet, suddenly unable to get away from him and the alcohol fast enough. "Thank you for the clothes. Night."

She's up the stairs and into her room in record time, leaving Castle stranded on the couch with a confused and concerned hybrid expression on his face.

As soon as the lock snicks under her fingertips, she taps several carefully selected buttons on her phone. The dial tone sounds for a few seconds, before the person on the other line picks up.

"Beckett? Is something wrong? He didn't actually seem like an asshole, but if he -"

"No, Espo. I'm – I'm fine. But I didn't tell you everything at the shop today. There's… something I need you to help me with."

* * *

Castle should probably resign himself to the eternally befuddled state he will forever endure when around Kate Beckett. She's a mystery wrapped in a mystery shrouded in a leather jacket.

What the hell was that about?

One moment, she's happily (domestically) watching a Marvel movie beside him on his couch, the next second, she's fleeing like she's Road Runner and he's Wile. E. Coyote.

The only thing that changed was the wine.

He wonders if she has some kind of panic attacks, and alcohol is a trigger. He instantly feels terrible and horribly worried. Alternatively, maybe she thought he was trying to create a romantic atmosphere, and wanted to escape. That's always possible.

He turns off the Hulk mid-fight, and ducks upstairs to check on her.

"Kate?" He knocks gently on her door. "Are you okay?"

There is a brief delay, during which fear begins to dissolve his stomach. "Am fine. Sorry. Just tired. Is very late in Kiev."

Silence settles, and he gets the distinct notion that she's waiting for him to go away. "Well, all right then. But call if you need anything. I'm right across the hall."

His concern not exactly assuaged, he retreats to his room, powerless to do anything but be in proximity to her.  
Castle retrieves the _All-American Murder _book she gave him at the store, and begins to idly read some gory details of an unsolved homicide committed in February, 1980.

He's going to have to talk to her tomorrow. They've got more than a few things to sort out.

* * *

Beckett waits for what feels like hours until she feels sure enough that Castle will be asleep to go and check on him.

Sure enough, when she soundlessly inches the door to his room open, he's lying peacefully on his side, his hair admirably messy. Carefully, she shuts his door again, lest the dull wedge of light from the hall wake him.

Freeing her hair from the collar of her new leather jacket, she makes for the exit, grabbing a spare set of keys to the loft from the bowl Castle keeps in the entryway.

She could always get Espo to break her back in, but she'd rather avoid having to do that.

Not feeling at all inclined to trap herself in a steel box, Kate takes the stairs to the ground floor, and slips, wraith-like, past the bored doorman, who is looking for people coming in, and not going out.

She spies Espo's sedan idling on the corner about a block away, exactly where he said he'd be.

Beckett quickly slides into the passenger seat, and turns to face her long-lost friend.

"Well?" she pokes.

"While you were lounging around in that fine-ass brownstone waiting for pretty boy to fall asleep, I did some digging. It turns out, the alley where your mother was stabbed? I don't know yet who it belonged to then, but that's in Irish Mob territory now," he informs her.

Beckett sighs. "That's not good. I need to find out who owned the alley then. Or, at least, who might've been there. I've got no promising starts for this, Espo. None."

He raises his eyebrows. "Look whose English suddenly improved. Pretty boy know you're this eloquent?"

She rolls her eyes. "Shut it, Javi. I don't want to pull him in on this, more than he already is. He's just a safe place to go back to, and hopefully an alibi, if I ever need one. He's better off not knowing why I came and what I want. He doesn't deserve to be dragged into this jungle-gym mess of a cold case. He seems like a good man."

"From the looks of things, he wouldn't mind being dragged in. Especially not by the hand. By you."

"Javi," she warns, a slightly childish lilt working its way into her voice at his teasing.

He holds up his hands in self-defence. "Whoa there, Becks. I'm just saying. I looked that guy up. He's a mystery novelist. Done pretty well for himself. No record or history – well, nothing from word on the street, anyway. I think you'll be safe enough with him."

Beckett decides it's well and truly time to steer the conversation away from her husband, and anything that Javi is imagining may or may not (_may NOT_) possibly exist between them. "So – the Irish Mob, huh? What do they think of us Ukrainians these days?"

Espo shrugs. "Don't suppose it matters much, does it? Seeing as a very good mate of mine happens to be reasonably high up in their little leprechaun ranks?"

A smile twists across Beckett's face. This may not even be a lead, but it's something. It's something more than wasting away in a cramped room with the company of her father, some alcohol and a thickening black cloud. It's a tiny step along the path for answers: a road she'll walk for the rest of her life, if need be. "What are we waiting for, then, Javi? Don't you want to introduce me to your friend?"

* * *

**So I've had a note that you guys might be interested in longer chapters? I can do this, but updates might be coming a lot less frequently. As it is, I'm running out of pre-written chapters, and I'm hitting a lot of assessment, so chapters might be slowing up anyway.**

**x.M**

**P.S. If anyone can rec a good Castle fanfiction written in French, I will love you forever.**


	10. 10 - Liquor and Leprechauns

**Hey guys,**

**So for those of you who aren't a fan of Kate ditching Castle, I'm not fussed on it either, really. But I felt that's where the story needed to go, if only for a little while: it's not exactly OOC when it comes to her mum's murder, considering 5.01. But it'll stop soon. **

**As for Espo writing his number on Kate's arm, I didn't realise that was a weird thing to do. People do that all the time where I'm from, so you don't lose the number. My dad used to write his number on my arm when we were going somewhere busy as a kid, so that if I got lost, he could get contacted. Sorry about that, everyone.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 10  
****a caskett fanfiction**

For the one hundred millionth time in the last fifty hours, Castle debates the wisdom of his choice to buy a Russian Bride.

It's not that he regrets it.

Oh no.

Regret is at least a short plane flight and a long drive from everything he's currently feeling as he lies awake.

It's just… He's just… She's just… Ugh.

_Stop dancing around it, you idiot. How about, for once in your life, you quit_ -

All right, fine. He likes her.

(How could he not? She's amazing, even if she does accidentally cheat at Halo.)

If he met her at, like, a party or something, she's definitely a girl he'd pursue, in a heartbeat. Put on the charm, try to impress her. See where the night takes them.

Hell, she's even someone he would consider having a relationship with. He hasn't properly dated anyone since things fell apart with Meredith.

Meredith had been a bad idea, right from the beginning. He should have known it would end with her couch, a director, and fewer than the recommended minimum articles of clothing.

But Beckett is a bad idea for a totally different reason.

So many, many different reasons. Just because he gets a stupid feeling of rightness around her doesn't mean it would actually work, obviously. And while he gets a vague feeling she's starting to warm to him (it may just be wishful thinking), they're not in the best place at the moment.

The hallway feels like too big a space separating them, yet it is nothing compared to the canyon of culture, language and secrets that yawns between them.

Secrets.

That's the big thing, isn't it? That's what makes the abyss deep and insurmountable.

He thinks tomorrow will be a research day. Because she deserves to know about him, and he about her. Whatever she's got herself into (he's sure there's something – beautiful, clever girls like Kate Beckett do not come to America as Russian Brides without very good reason), it'll inevitably affect him, too. Somehow, they ended up in this together, even if it's only because of a piece of paper.

So whether it takes his flirty playboy banter, friendly conversation or the interrogative attitude he's learned from cop shows… Well, tomorrow, he is going to find out what that secret is.

* * *

"You know, if you really wanted to get these guys in a cooperative mood, you really should've worn a shorter skirt," Espo teases, grinning at her. The contrasting shadows and lights of the pub give her a glimpse of both sides of him. The menacing front and the kinder interior. It suits him.

Bodies swirl around them, thick Irish and American accents bubbling in the air, accompanied by the smell of a range of alcoholic beverages.

She tries to block out that last part.

"Shut up, Javi. You know I could drink you under the table," Beckett warns. Though she can't resist a little teasing of her own. "Or maybe you're right. I could lose the pants and drag my sweater down a bit, and -"

"I will take you back home," he threatens instantly, clearly having been assaulted with mental images of her in a state of undress surrounded by drooling guys, with big brother instincts kicking in.

She twists her lips at his use of the word home.

"Sorry," Espo mutters, catching her reaction. "I just meant… you know. Back to his place. How's that going, by the way? You didn't really talk much about it in the car. Just said you didn't want him in this, and left it at that."

She shrugs. "It's fine. Different. He's actually pretty nice. He doesn't deserve this, me sneaking around. Still, he'll get what he wanted out of this deal. And I'll get what I want."

"Yeah, Beckett, you weren't exactly clear on that, either. Even if you can track down your mother's killer, what the hell are you gonna do about it? Go to the cops? _Hi, I'm Kate, an illegal Ukrainian immigrant. This man murdered a woman five years ago. Have fun. _I want to help you with this, Beckett, you know I do. I'd do anything, and I will. But have you really thought this through? Or did you just sign up to marry an American and hop on a plane?"

She's quiet for a moment because that's basically exactly what she did. "It wasn't just that, Espo. It wasn't only running to America. It was running away from home, too. My dad… he -"

At that moment a medium height man of a nice build rocks up beside Espo. He looks kind of cute (in a little-kid way), with his smoothly combed honey hair and baby blue eyes, which flick up and down her body once. It doesn't look like he's checking her out (not at all), or sizing her up. Just cataloguing her existence in case he ever meets her again.

"Sorry, am I interrupting? I didn't mean to interrupt," the man mutters, backing away hurriedly.

"Nah, bro. It's fine," Esposito assures him, shooting Kate a look that promises they'll talk later. "This is my friend, Kate Beckett. We knew each other when we were younger, back in Kiev. She flew over as a Russian Bride for a rich dude who lives in Soho. Kate, this is Kevin Ryan, a proud leprechaun of the Irish Mob."

"I swear to god, Javier Esposito, you call me a leprechaun one more time, and I'm going to shove a gold coin where even a rainbow can't reach," Kevin warns, looking disgruntled, but failing a little in the threatening department. Javi snickers. This is clearly an old joke between them.

Ryan then turns to her, a slightly sad look settling in his surprisingly innocent-looking eyes. "Russian Bride, huh?"

He's heard stories, then, like most people on this side of town. About girls like her, and what can happen to them. She wonders for a moment about Ruby, the girl next to her on the plane. Did she end up bruised and battered and broken, just like she thought she would? Or did she wind up lucky, like Beckett?

_Lucky.  
_

It's finally starting to hit home, how fortunate she really was, ending up with someone like Castle.

Kate realises with a shudder that she'll never see any of the other girls again, will never know what happened to them. If they got the lives they wanted, or if New York City swallowed them whole.

She feels a sudden need to defend Castle against this stereotype tainting him.

"Yeah," she replies at last, after being silent a moment too long. "That's me. I actually like it, I think. It's… interesting. But lovely as you seem, Kevin, I didn't come here to chat, or to be a bride, for that matter. I'm trying to find someone, and Espo seems to think you might be able to help."

Ryan nods his head enthusiastically. "Any friend of Espo's is a friend of mine. Except for that doctor chick. If I so much as smile at her, he gives me a death stare. _Despite _my being happily in a relationship."

Kate cocks her head to the side, deciding there's time for this little story before they hit the streets. "What doctor would this be, Esposito?"

He grumbles. "We've only been back in contact for a few hours, and it's already come to this?"

Since Javi clearly isn't going to be forthcoming, Kevin continues the tale. "Espo broke his arm in a fight at this very bar. One of the hospital interns set it for him. He took quite a shine to her."

Espo clears his throat. "We're not hear about me and the medical girl – though I maintain I _am _getting somewhere with her – we're here about Beckett's mother."

Ryan nods. "You said you were looking for someone, and that I might be able to help. Who was it you were trying to find?"

Beckett takes a deep breath. "That's the problem, Ryan. I don't know. But whoever they are, they killed my mother."

* * *

**Next chapter's long, I promise. **

**For any of you who read Superior Vena Cava, an update will be out soon. **

**P.S. It's got to the point where I've read so many fanfictions where Meredith cheated on Castle that I can't even remember if she actually did or not. Oh well. **

**x.M**

**Thanks to all of you for your lovely reviews.**


	11. 11 - 20 Something Questions

**Ok, so apparently I was right, and it's not weird to write on someone's arm.**

**To the Guest who said that an American wouldn't say "Fancy some wine" and would instead say "Would you like some wine", I like to think that being a writer, Castle does not have a vocabulary that restricts him to only one way of offering someone something, but if you find the variety unrealistic, I'd be happy to change it.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 11  
****a caskett fanfiction**

She looks tired, he thinks, when she comes down the stairs in the morning.

More tired than she should look if she slept for ten hours. Maybe she had more nightmares.

"Hey, Beckett," he smiles casually, trying not to give away that he is one cup of coffee away from launching his master plan.

"Morning," she yawns. "How're you?"

"I'm fine. Good. Great." Okay, so maybe he won't be able to wait for her to finish her coffee. "So I was thinking… We're married, but we know next to nothing about each other, right?"

She nods, and speaks mid-way through another yawn. "That's a problem when you've never met before."

His ears prick up. Something sounded different about that sentence, but his over-tired, over-excited mind can't quite place it. He'll come back and over-analyse this moment in his head later. "Luckily, I have a way to remedy that. Have you ever heard of a game called 20 questions?"

She shakes her head. "Maybe is called something different back home."

He shrugs, not sure. "Well, normally, when you play it, it's a guessing game. Say, I would think about something random – like butter, for instance – and you can ask me twenty yes or no questions to figure out what it is I'm thinking of."

She looks a little confused. "Is too early to play crazy butter games."

Castle shakes his head, ploughing forth. "See, Beckett, I thought we could modify it a bit. I can ask you one question about yourself, and you have to answer honestly with 'yes' or 'no'. Then you get to ask me one, and I promise I will do the same. Does that sound fair to you?" She looks to be on the knife's edge, perhaps wanting to agree, but thinking it unwise. "Please, Beckett? I'd rather not be married to a total stranger, and we have no idea how long this arrangement could go on for."

Finally, she nods. "Okay."

He, thankfully, manages not to squeal in excitement at this intriguing possibility.

He leads her over to the couch, where she nestles into the leather, carefully balancing her mug. She wraps her fingers carefully around the coffee's warmth, and curls into herself, looking sleepy and utterly aware at the same time. "Do you want to go first, or should I?" he presses, wanting to get this show on the road.

"You. So I am knowing what kind of things to ask," she elaborates after a second.

"All right. Sure. Let's start easy, and work our way up." Castle pauses, a little unprepared. He'd spent all his time coming up with extravagant plans to get her to play, so that now she's agreed surprisingly easily, he's got next to nothing in the question bank. He settles for what he desperately wants to know. "Do you think you and I can be friends?"

She nods, and gives him a small smile. "Yes."

He shouldn't feel relieved. He feels relieved. They can be friends. That's good. "Okay, great. Now it's your turn. Go ahead."

"Are you living in New York your whole life?"

He shakes his head. "No. Mostly, but sometimes I had to travel a little for my mother's shows. But I would classify myself as a born and bred New Yorker."

"Your mother is in the theatre?"

He grins. "Shh, Beckett. One question at a time. It's my go, now. Have you always wanted to come to America?"

There is a pause, as she considers her answer. What and what not to tell him. "No," she murmurs finally. "Your country is very nice. But even though I wanted to travel as a little, your America was not at the top of my list."

"What was?" He instantly has to know. Where did this woman dream of going as a little girl? Which continents and countries did she think about before she went to sleep at night? His new book character is already beginning to take a more solid form in his head, substance starting to fill out the physical form that greatly resembles Kate.

She's smirking at him. "I think not, Castle. Only one question, remember? Breaking your own rules," she 'tsk's. "My question turn, now. Your mother is in the theatre? An actor… actress?"

He nods. "Yes. Her name is Martha Rodgers. She works on Broadway."

Unexpectedly, Kate's face lights up. "Martha Rodgers? I am hearing of her, back in Ukraine. My friend in Kiev, she comes to New York on an exchange, years ago. She sees your mother in the _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ show that her host family takes her to."

He can't help but think his mother will be thrilled to find out she has fans across the globe. "I find it deeply wounding, Beckett, that you are living with an internationally famous author, but are only looking forward to meeting his small-time actress mother. Wow. Cuts."

But he's smiling because she's smiling. Somehow, his mother, who has never set foot anywhere in the former Soviet Union, reminds Kate Beckett of home. It's a strange world, he thinks. "Question number three, to me. Where did you want to travel?"

Her eyes narrow. "Is cheating. You said only yes or no."

He grins. "Come on, Kate. You cheated at Halo. Humour me, and we'll call it even."

She sighs, and apparently either doesn't notice, or isn't bothered by, him calling her by her first name. "Fine. Australia."

"Why?"

She purses her lips at his blatant abuse of the game's rules, but answers anyway. "In winter, it gets very cold in Kiev. In Australia – no. Is hot, all the time. And they have the cute hoppy 'roos," she adds, ducking her head as she blushes slightly.

He can't help the warmth that floods him. "Really? The kangaroos?"

She glares. "They cute, Castle. But they could kill you with their feet."

His smile stretches wider. "Kinda like you, huh?"

Beckett tilts her head to the side. "Depends on my shoes."

* * *

The game transpires to be more interesting that she'll admit.

Yes, chocolate is his favourite flavour of ice-cream. No, he's never been to Australia and seen the kangaroos. Yes, he can say"Bonjour, un baguette" in French (_no, Castle, that does not make you bilingual_).

"Have you ever been punched in your pretty face?" she asks, unable to hide her amusement at the idea. She's genuinely curious, though.

"Yes. In the eleventh grade, by Nathan Harper. He thought I kissed his girlfriend."

"Had you?"

Castle looks suddenly mischievous. "Yeah, I had." Suddenly, his expression changes. "Have you ever been punched?"

Of course she has. Back in Kiev, she'd started poking her nose into her mother's murder. Who had come and cleaned out their place? Who had taken her passport, her birth certificate, and her mother's paperwork? What was her mother's killer tied up in that meant he had power on the other side of the world? Before she'd learned decent self-defence (and even a few times after: sometimes even skill can't best size and brute strength), she'd ended up on the wrong end of more than a few fists and feet.

That had all hurt, to be sure. But the time her father was so drunk he believed she was her mother's killer (he wasn't seeing his daughter, he was seeing a shadow – at least, she'd hoped he was), and he'd thrown a weak, barely-there blown at her chest… that had been more painful than the fierce attacks that left her bruised for weeks.

"Yes," she says tightly. She'd have to be blind not to notice the cloud settle rapidly over him, the darkness and doubt. Maybe he's beginning to work out just one layer in her reluctance to trust. A lot of men she's met haven't been gentlemen.

But he is, and she knows that now. She was never really afraid of him – apprehensive, maybe – but now… Well, she meant what she said about them becoming friends.

Beckett doesn't want him prying into dark memories that won't help anyone, however. She'd been young and stupid and spiralling downwards after her mother's death, and it had highlighted the reckless streak she always knew she had. With no one to pull her back from the rabbit hole, and no faith in the justice system to bring her the closure she needed, she'd run headlong at every echo of a lead.

It had been idiotic and unproductive.

This time, she has a plan.

* * *

He can see her getting lost in her own little world. He wonders if that's where the nightmares come from.

Someone's hit her, and more than once by the looks of it. He'd be confident to bet that it wasn't because she snagged another girl's man.

Though he wouldn't doubt she could've done that if she'd wanted to.

"Have you ever been married before?" Beckett asks, breaking the silence and turning the spotlight onto him.

He wonders if she means to a Russian Bride, or an American woman. "No. I mean, I always figured I'd get married one day, but… No. You're my first wife."

An unreadable expression darts across her face, and he cannot help but wonder what it is. Surprise? Approval? Scepticism? Gratefulness? Okay, so it's wishful thinking to even imagine that last one.

He's glad he decided to do this game with her. Assuming she's been honest with her answers (and judging by her body language and responses, she has), he's learned a lot about her.

She too likes chocolate ice cream. Yes, she has played Monopoly for more than four hours straight. No, she has not seen all the Barbie movies (_who is this Barbie, Castle?_). No, she has never drunk an entire litre of cola in one breath for a bet. Yes, she has read Harry Potter. Yes, she likes dancing.

He'll use a few more of his questions just to get to know her better (which is turning out to be amazing fun), and then he'll work out a way to phrase some of his bigger questions.

"So, you know my mother works on Broadway. What does your mother do?" He can't help but wonder why on earth Mrs Beckett approved her daughter becoming a bride for a rich American, though he supposes everyone has their reasons.

Something instantly changes between them, however. Beckett's acting like he tore open her sternum, pulled out her heart and slit her lungs. Her eyes get distant, glazed over and stormy. She curls tighter in on herself.

"Lawyer," she manages finally. "She was a lawyer."

It takes a moment for it to sink into Castle's brain, which is currently mostly occupied by his overwhelming instinct to gather her up in his arms when she's looking like this.

Oh.

The operative word, in this instance, is _was. _

* * *

**So I'll admit I totally threw myself a bone with that Australia thing, but mostly cos I only wanted that comment about killing with feet.**

**Due to exams, I may not be able to update for 4-5 days. I hope you forgive me :) **

**Also, can anyone rec any good fics? I'm kinda running out. Shameless self-promos are accepted, by the way.**

**x. M**


	12. 12 - Nikki Heat

**Hey everyone,**

**I know it's been about a million years since you've heard from me, and believe me, that was not by design. I am aware that I owe you guys an explanation for my absence, but there's only so much I can tell you before I'm uncomfortable.**

**Basically, I'm really, really sick with some stuff they'll probably never be able to fix, and this really affects my life and my future. I don't want to go into a lot of detail, cos it would make things weird for all of us, but there will always be times where I drop off the map for a long time. It's worse now than it's ever been, so things won't be quite like they were before, with daily updates, but I'm doing the best I can for you guys.**

**I hope you understand, and enjoy this new chapter.**

**Also, you're probably gonna have to re-read parts, otherwise you'll be a little lost. It's my fic, and even I had to re-read the whole thing in order to write a new entry for it.**

* * *

**Russian Bride No. 41319 ****–**** chapter 12  
****a caskett fanfiction**

Beckett has a sudden, overpowering urge to run very, very far away.

They'd been doing so well, too: friendly banter, gentle conversation, amusing get-to-know-you questions. But he's just gone and scored a strike when it comes to knocking down the bowling pins of her self-control.

She can't deal with this.

After all, that's why she's here, isn't it? Her complete inability to in any way come to terms with her mother's murder. To pack it up, put it in a box in the back of her mind, heal the trauma and move on.

Moving on is just a fancy name for giving up, she thinks. Her mother fought her whole life for justice; she more than deserves a little of her own.

She can see the overwhelming realisation dawning all over Castle's face. He's likely merely reacting sympathetically on instinct. He can't possibly know. He's probably assuming her mother died a garden variety death.

Kate knows, though, that she can't _really _run from this. Aside from Espo, who lives a half-hour taxi ride across town, he is almost all she has.

She can't just up and vanish every time he so much as knocks on the walls that surround her.

But they're hundreds of feet thick; it's not like he'll ever break them down. She has nothing to fear.

She can just evade him for now. There's no reason for him to get tied up in her mother's case. She doesn't know how deep this goes.

She doesn't want him winding up dead, even if she does.

He's just a writer, and this story has a few more plot twists than he paid for.

"I am hungry," she announces, standing up and dusting imaginary offending particles from her new, comfily oversized sleep shirt. "Can we be having something to eat?"

He nods instantly, like one of those bobble heads the Americans seem to be so fond of. "Of course. Yep. Yeah. What would you like?"

* * *

He's not going to push. The last thing he needs is to scare her away, not when these last ten minutes have got him further than the other two days.

Castle watches as she despondently picks at her toast, not really eating despite claiming to be hungry. He lets the silence drag on for a few more minutes before he finally cracks.

"So, Beckett, what do you want to do today?" he asks, giving her an innocent grin. _That was enough prying for one day, _it's saying, he hopes.

Kate shrugs. "Should you not be writing? At least for a bit?"

He wriggles uncomfortably. He _should _be writing. But he'd much rather spend some time with her. "Okay. Maybe a little bit. But it's my duty of care to entertain you. What would you possibly do without my company?"

Her lips tug a little wryly. "I have and will always be able to amuse myself, Castle."

It has a distinct tone of _I did before you and I will after you. _He raises an eyebrow salaciously because that thought is too much this early in the morning.

She rolls her eyes. "I am having my new books to read. Go write another new one for my reading."

Well, if she wants to read it, he'll write it.

* * *

She stares at the page, unable to recollect anything else to put down.

She'll be the first to admit that her little excursion last night had been anything but helpful. They'd wandered around the bar for a while, asking casual questions to determine who had been in the gang five years ago, and who was a newbie. Most Kevin already knew, but it never hurt to establish some kind of timeline, and a list of who could be a witness, or an involved party.

But then Espo had led her out into the alley where her mother had been stabbed. Her vision had started to go kind of dark after a minute – she'd eventually realised that this was because she'd been unable to breathe.

Noticing her starting to sway (one person can't possibly take the weight of all the unresolved grief), Espo had steered her into a taxi before she could protest.

So, all in all, her grand adventure has yielded next to no information, even if it has shown her the truth.

Maybe she isn't as strong as she thought.

She'll become stronger, though, she promised herself. She can do this. She doesn't even need help, not really. She can do this all on her own.

Beckett looks down at the piece of paper sitting in front of her on the desk in her room. The door behind her is securely locked, just in case an (adorably) over-enthusiastic writer decides to bounce in and ask her a question. She doesn't want him to find more answers than he bargained for.

_INFORMATION ACQUIRED: Foray 1 (occurred August 14, 2004)  
_ \- K. Ryan (in mob, 18mths / probable ally)  
\- J. McManus (in mob, 13yrs / witness &amp; suspect)  
\- F. Farlane (in mob, 3mths/ newbie)  
\- W. Carter (in mob, 35yrs / suspect)  
\- G. H. Sullen (in mob, 4yrs / enforcer = suspect)

The list goes on, but not much of it is useful. The recent arrivals were more than willing to talk to Beckett (a little flirting and asking about their 'impressive careers' and they opened right up), but the older mobsters were tougher to crack. All she's got on them is what Kevin's gleaned from his time there.

It had transpired that the Irish Mob had indeed boasted the site of her mother's death as part of their territory back in 1999, and continue to remain in control today. Espo's leprechaun will be an invaluable resource in her crusade for justice.

The problem remains that the site of the murder is really all she has to go on. Hidden away in her grief and smothered by memories in Kiev, all they'd got from the NYPD was a basic report, with a single photograph of her mother's corpse.

In themselves, the police documents, what few of them there were, had provided little solace or information. Johanna's full name, her age, her occupation and a few publically-acceptable details surrounding her death were all the facts she received back then.

However, a century has turned since that day, and she is determined that in America, she will find the answers the Americans never gave her.

She'll look into the case her mother was working on, her associates and any other residual information from Johanna Beckett's time in the land that wrapped around her and choked the life out of her like a snake.

But as for now, what she really, really wants is to visit her mother's grave.

* * *

Even with approximately thirty-five percent of his brain upstairs hovering wherever Beckett is, Castle is still churning out more interesting, original work than he has in months. His character is blooming to life on the page.

His lovely, intelligent, beautiful, _nameless_ character.

He's hit a road block in that department. Castle knows he wants something that reminds him of his "wife". A word or two that will bring her to the forefront of his mind (she seems to have taken up residence there anyway) so that the character is instantly refreshed in his brain with the tap of a few keys.

K's. There need to be K's.

_Nikki. _Good one. Snappy, sharp, sassy. And, most importantly, two fifths K's.

Now, for a last name. A word that will immediately convey to the reader her passion for justice, her flare and fire.

_Heat.  
_

_Nikki Heat.  
_

_Detective Nikki Heat.  
_

BAM! He's the greatest. It's official.

He's not sure if you can win the Pulitzer Prize if you're a crime novelist, but they should totally give it to him. If not, he'll settle for a medium-crossing Oscar award.

Apparently, this situation will work out better than his wildest dreams. Whatever is the exact and complete opposite of Kryptonite, she's it for him. She's some crazy drug that makes him see and imagine things that area a thousand times better than reality.

Kiev really never should have let her go.

Not that he's complaining, not at all. If Ukraine had never said goodbye to Kate Beckett, he never would have said hello.

* * *

**And we're back!**

**For updates, follow my tumblr, "andsotheysaidalways". I also have a humour blog "cardsagainstprofanity" and just started up one of those stupid original quote blog things as well "newyorkrenegades". Self promo over.**

**Hope you liked the chapter :)**


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